


And Then There Were None

by Lise



Category: The Silmarillion - Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise





	And Then There Were None

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KathysSong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathysSong/gifts).



_Don't you think it's time for us   
to bring it to an end  
come play the song of death_  
-"Thorn," Blind Guardian

It seemed to be harder and harder to find somewhere to be alone.

Things moved faster, sweeping him along, and even when he tried to push back against it the flow only seemed to become stronger. His life was no longer his own, and he hated that thought, for it felt like an excuse, and he would _not_ make excuses, the shelter of the cowardly.

Whatever else he was, and of that he still wasn't quite certain, he would not be a coward.

At last he found a place to be alone, outside, on the balcony. Perched on the stone parapet, looking out at the horizon where he could see the sea shimmering, far away, he breathed out and closed his eyes.

The leaves were turning and the air was growing cooler. They would have to be cautious during winter, with the wolves growing bolder by the day. It seemed that the Enemy's reach was always expanding, and their own grip on the land slipping, weakening, day by day. If he closed his eyes he could see none of this, but it was still there.

Closing your eyes to things did not make them cease to exist. That had been the flaw of his brother Curufin who saw only what he liked to see, or the flaw of Caranthir, whose rage closed his eyes to everything but vengeance and war, at least while he was fighting.

Did any other brother, he wondered, fight to justify his brother's deaths? Or – deeper than that – to find a reason that the end was wrought by the ended and not by some other hand?

Not by his hands, surely. His were not the decisions they made, or not all of them, and besides, they were fated. Cursed. Doomed.

It seemed so long ago, that conversation he had had with Findekáno, when his friend had expressed his fear of the future, that there was no way for this to end in any way but utter annihilation, and Maedhros had laughed – laughed, when had he laughed since? Did he even remember how? – laughed and told Fingon that if they had defied the Valar thus far they could defy their curse as well.

Fingon was dead, destroyed. His father was dead, and always he could hear the remainder ticking in his mind, just his immediate family – _me-Cano-Pityo-me_\- in circles, ticking ticking ticking and he knew that when the sound stopped he would only have two brothers left, or worse, one.

Sometimes he wondered if it would be better just to die together, rather than to die one by one. He envied Telvo, sometimes, that their youngest brother had never had to watch it come to this.

In a way, he had had the cleanest death of any of them. Maedhros prayed he would not be punished for what small ill he had done, in the name of loyalty. If there was any mercy in the world. He suspected there was not enough to spare for his youngest brother.

Then their father; that had surprised them all. Neverending, all-powerful, their Ata fell all the same, and died just the same, and even if they did not fragment then the lines were drawn, between those who could not question and those who had to.

They'd been lucky, for a time. He'd nearly thought that they'd escaped with only that – but Celegorm's impulsive anger led them to Doriath, and there they made up for the long dry spell where their blood had not watered the earth enough to appease the Valar. Three of his brothers fell there, one by one by one, each alone and surrounded, and he hadn't even known until after the fight was won.

It was the stupidest luck, if he could even call it luck.

At least Maedhros knew better now than to think that this quiet meant anything but the pause before another plunge, the calm before the storm, the respectful silence before yet another funeral. If only it might be his own, that he might at least not live to see any more of his brothers fall. But to die with the Oath unfulfilled would leave too few to finish it, and condemn them all to restless slumber for all the long millennia of eternity…

He would sooner oblivion, in truth.

It was now, letting his thoughts drift, that he thought of his brothers. The dead, first.

Telvo had always been quieter, more of their mother's gentle temperament. He'd never failed, even as a child, to recognize Maedhros, by the color of his hair, delighted by the sameness between his own and his twin's and now this third entity. Who had ever been able to tell Telvo and Pityo apart? They were just different names. It didn't matter what you called them, they both answered to each other's names. One in two bodies, he'd heard it said, and could believe it. What did that make the last twin left? Half of something, irreparably divided?

Caranthir, then. He had always been dark and angry, with a temper as fierce as Curufin's but without his older brother's subtlety. Caranthir said what he wanted to, did what he wanted to, was as he wanted to. Stubborn, bullheaded, and loyal even unto the worst of deaths. Caranthir would stand beside his brothers, right and wrong, good or ill, and had until the last, when he died alone.

As all of them would, in the end.

Or Curufin, who flaunted his cleverness as a weapon and never failed to remind everyone he met of his father, so much so that some claimed they shared a spirit and through his son, Fëanaro would never die. And yet Curufin had died as well, just as their father had, just as his brothers did, just as those he hated did. He could not pretend to agree with all that Curufin had done, not by far. All the same, they were brothers, and even all the hatred in the world could not undo that bond. They said that when word of Fëanor's death had reached Fingolfin, even he had wept, even for their long-standing enmity.

Maedhros knew for certain that had Fingolfin died first, there would have been no tears from his father.

Finally, for the moment, Celegorm, who had not been so much younger than Maglor but yet was so very different. Impulsive, short-tempered and quick to move, Maedhros had always known that Tyelko didn't think things through before carrying them out. He wondered if his brother had even known he was dying until the moment it happened. He wondered if Celegorm had imagined the faces of the young boys he condemned to die before allowing the deed to be done.

All so different, but all the same. All, always, was done in the name of their father, and in the name of their Oath. There was nothing else left, now. He could open his eyes and look at the turning leaves, the shimmering water, the green of trees and grass and life and the grey of heavy stone. But none of that was theirs.

All that was the world of the living, and they lived now with one foot in Mandos, only waiting for the slightest tug to pull them over. Some hardly even waiting; Maglor seemed to drift closer to that edge every day, almost fighting to tip the balance, it seemed, sometimes.

Of course, Maedhros understood it. There was no other point. Living to die had no appeal; but at the same time it had nothing to risk, either. There was nothing they could lose, not even their lives. After all, it wasn't as though those belonged to them anymore.

All he had to do was relax and float down the river, and eventually it would bring him to the sea. His chest ached, squeezing around his heart and lungs. Maedhros leaned into the wind, feeling it tug at his clothes with plaintive hands, and wondered what kept him here at all.

_And why, why, should it matter at all…_ He leaned forward, imagined hands coming to cradle him. _If there is any mercy in this world, grant us a peaceful afterwards, at least. If ever any desired mercy, I ask it now. _

_You could surrender the Oath._

That answer came to him without thinking. No. If they had nothing left, all that kept them tied to anything was the Oath, and he feared what would become of him if he left it, even more than he feared the death of his last brothers, and he hoped that did not make him a coward.

"Maitimo?"

The wind blew past his face and brought him back to life. He looked down and found himself barely on the edge of the parapet. He looked down, knowing the stones below could shatter him, and felt no fear. He was glad of it.

No matter what else he might be – murderer, Kinslayer, traitor, fool – he would never be a coward.


End file.
